


I'll come back, when you call me

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Developing Relationship, Edmund is an Awkward Lemon, Fluff and Humor, Giants, Golden Age (Narnia), Henry-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Magic, Multi, Slow Build, Swan Queen - Freeform, Swan-Mills Family, Teen Henry Mills, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things never happen the same way twice. This time, it isn't Emma Swan that disappears through a wardrobe - it's her son, and what he finds on the other side isn't quite what he was expecting.</p><p>“Do all the animals here talk?” Henry blurts out, before he can stop himself. "Hello, horsey."</p><p>“My <em>name</em> is Phillip,” the horse snaps, and King Edmund’s mouth twitches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through the Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely don't know what this is, other than a work in progress. I'll probably change the tags and ask for ideas, that's if it gets more than three views! But basically it's a Narnia/Once Upon A Time crossover, with Henry at the centre, possible romance, background SwanQueen, etc etc. 
> 
> Henry is seventeen, all the stuff that's happened so far in the show is canon except I've added my own ending, basically. Things have been cool as a cucumber in Storybrooke for ages and Regina and Emma are together because of science and reasons, so there. 
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it! I hope it's not too awful.

Henry is seventeen when he falls through the bottom of his wardrobe and ends up in a different world. It makes sense, he thinks, clutching the Storybook close to his chest; his mother, Emma Swan, came into the human world through a magical wardrobe, and now he’s returning to The Enchanted Forest through his.

Although, the more he looks around him, the less certain he is of his whereabouts. For one thing, he’s almost positive that The Enchanted Forest didn’t usually come with a harsh winter, and for another, he’s also pretty sure that there were no talking beavers in his other mom’s world. He feels like that’s something Regina would have mentioned, probably with a touch of disdain in her voice, if only to make Emma laugh.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot and feels the crunch of snow beneath his sneakers. He’s dressed for Storybrooke, Maine; just a thin jumper and some jeans, and his striped scarf that he’s inexplicably fond of, for all that Grace tells him it makes him look like a wannabee Doctor Who. It’s cold, and he’s lost, and there are beavers nearby that look as though they may or may not be talking.

Henry decides that it’s probably for the best if he takes it in his stride. So many strange, impossible things have happened throughout Henry’s life that talking beavers barely scrape the bottom of the list.

He clears his throat and edges forward, his teeth chattering slightly. “Excuse me?”

One of the beavers’ squeaks and whips around, her flat tail leaving an imprint in the soft snow. The other beaver narrows his eyes at Henry, taking in his thin form and the Storybook in his arms, and then the beaver groans heavily, covering his fuzzy brown face with his paws.

“Another Son of Adam. If this is anything like the last time, then Aslan be with us.”

If Henry wasn’t rooted to the ground in shock, he’d probably be a bit offended. _Son of Adam. Aslan_. Henry knows those words. He knows those stories. Henry has read every single fairy-tale book that he could get his hands on since he first began to read properly. He _knows_ this story.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is, “I’m cold.”

The female beaver – Mrs Beaver, as she insists on being called later – starts fussing immediately. “Oh, you poor thing. Luckily for you, we’re not new to this. We’ve had our fair share of humans wander through here, let me tell you! Do you know where you are, love?”

 _Narnia_ , Henry wants to say, but he doesn’t want them to get the wrong impression. He isn’t from here, and he sure as hell wasn’t looking for this place when he stumbled head-first into his wardrobe – he had actually been looking for a place to hide the Storybook before Grace came over for tea. Things had calmed down in Storybrooke for now, but it still wasn’t safe for the book to be left lying around, and even if Henry trusted Grace, he didn’t trust her father. The Mad Hatter wasn’t called mad for nothing.

Henry doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he mumbles, “I fell through a wardrobe.”

Mr Beaver and Mrs Beaver share a look.

It’s not a lie. Henry has learnt how to hide his lies from Emma’s superpower by now. Part of him feels bad about lying to these creatures, especially since he knows that they’re kind and helpful, the good guys. He doesn’t remember everything from the books as a child, but he remembers enough.

Mrs Beaver clucks her tongue and shoos her paws at her husband, who shoots Henry a suspicious look and then darts off through the trees.

“Don’t mind him,” Mrs Beaver says, waddling closer. “He’s just going to fetch the King. You’re in Narnia, love. This is what we call the Lantern Waste, and it’s ever so lovely here in the Spring. Of course, this is nothing compared to the winters we used to have around here, oh no. But I won’t bore you with those tales right now, not when you’re as blue as a bird. Someone will fill you in, I’m sure, once we get you somewhere nice and warm. Come along, now, follow me.”

Mrs Beaver, Henry learns quickly, likes to talk. She waffles for a mile a minute while Henry trails behind her, shivering, as they plod slowly through the close-cropped trees. The snow is so deep that it fills Henry’s shoes a little more with each step, and he’s absolutely certain that his feet are going to be blue by the end of this. He can’t feel his toes as it is, and he’s afraid that he might trip up any moment now.

“ _There_ you are.”

Mr Beaver bounds towards them and fixes his wife with an exasperated stare. Henry watches them talk, smiling a little despite his discomfort, and sluggishly turns his head as hoof beats register in his ears. A brown steed trots into view, it’s face speckled with whiter patches. The horse comes to a graceful stop just a few feet away from Henry. Henry stares, a little mesmerised by the intelligence in the horses’ warm eyes, and then someone clears their throat.

Henry snaps his gaze up to the rider.

At first, all he can see is a shock of black hair and a red uniform. Then, the rider clambers down from the horse with practiced ease and lands with a thud in the snow, shaking their hair. It’s a boy about his age, maybe a head taller than Henry, lanky and skinny with very pale skin. There are freckles on his rosy cheeks, and his eyes are dark and solemn, drinking Henry in curiously. Henry shifts, a little unused to such an intense stare, and tucks his chin behind the Storybook.

The boy’s eyes flicker across the golden cover and then drift back to Henry’s face, studying him carefully.

Mr Beaver puffs up his chest and announces, “I present King Edmund, the Just.”

King Edmund, the Just, winces. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? Just Edmund will do.”

Mr Beaver looks unbothered. The horse snorts, rolling its eyes, and Henry takes an alarmed step backwards.

“Do all the animals here talk?” Henry blurts out, before he can stop himself.

“My _name_ is Phillip,” the horse snaps, and King Edmund’s mouth twitches.

“Don’t worry,” King Edmund says easily. “You get used to it. And I apologise, Phillip isn’t usually so impolite. The cold’s gone up his nose.”

Phillip snorts indignantly again, and then tosses his mane and trots away from them all to graze at some frozen grass nearby. Henry watches him, a little awed, and then turns his gaze back to the King. _Should I bow?_ His family is full of Kings and Queens and Princesses, but he’s never been taught the ins and outs of their society. He doesn’t know which fork to use at a dinner table, or how to rightfully address a person, and even if he did, the customs in this land are probably very different to the ones in The Enchanted Forest.

Henry decides to simply duck his head, although he can’t help but peek up from under his lashes, still too curious for his own good. “Good to meet you, Your Majesty,” Henry murmurs, and his teeth are chattering so hard that he almost bites his lip off.

The tips of King Edmund’s ears turn bright red. “You don’t have to call me that,” King Edmund says, shaking his head. “Like I said, just Edmund will do. You’re definitely not from this world, are you?”

Henry straightens up and shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I know of other world’s though, so this isn’t as much of a shock as it probably should be.” This time he really does bite his lip. Wincing, he rubs his mouth with his thumb and watches as King Edmund’s expression shifts from one of curiosity to one of concern.

“You’re freezing,” King Edmund states. “The beavers were right to bring you to me. You’re a son of Adam, and anyone is welcome in our Kingdom, as long as they bare no ill will to Narnia and her people. I take it you bare no ill will?”

It sounds like a very serious question, and Henry feels something pull at his chest. King Edmund doesn’t look like a boy as he regards Henry severely. He looks very much like a King.

“None at all,” Henry assures him. “I’d just like to get warm and then go home, if that’s alright with you.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, because it isn’t one. Henry already knows that he’s going home as soon as he can. He might live for magic and adventure, and he might be more curious than he can stand, but it’s taken a long time for Henry’s family to feel whole and happy and well, and he’s not going to spend any more time away from them than he has to. Besides, Grace will be at his house soon, and it won’t be long until she or someone else notices him missing, if they haven’t already.

King Edmund doesn’t reply. Instead, he stalks towards Phillip – long, sure strides – and murmurs something in the horses’ ear. In less than a minute, Henry is being beckoned over, and he moves eagerly. Too eagerly, in fact. He trips at the last moment, the cold making him clumsy, and the shock of it makes him go stiff. He’s fully prepared to face-plant the freezing cold snow, but the moment doesn’t come. Instead, warm hands grab at his waist and hoist him up until he’s stumbling into a standing position.

Henry blinks at King Edmund’s face, which is a lot closer than it was a moment ago. He freezes for a moment, inexplicably stuck where he is, and then he tries to move back a step or two, but King Edmund still has a hand on his waist and another one his arm. His palms are very warm, even through layers of fabric.

“Careful,” King Edmund murmurs, and then he releases Henry.

“Thanks,” Henry mutters. He picks the Storybook up from where it landed in a heap of frozen thorns and brushes snow off of the cover. King Edmund arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask any questions, for which Henry is grateful. A pale, callused hand is held out to Henry, and Henry hands him the Storybook. King Edmund blinks at him in surprise as Henry hoists himself clumsily up onto the horse and slides into the space behind the other boy, who slowly hands the book back with a look of faint bemusement.

“It’s a long ride,” King Edmund warns him, and Henry just manages to wave at the Mr and Mrs Beaver before they’re off, bounding through the forest and leaving the Lantern Waste behind them.

*

A castle comes into view as they reach the crest of a hill, and Henry lets out a relieved breath, only to suck it back in in awe. He’s seen castles before, in pictures and in real life, but this is what a castle is _supposed_ to look like; silver stone and ivy and towering turrets, with magnificent arched windows set into the sides. It stands proudly on the edge of a white cliff, overlooking a glistening sea. Henry can see a strip of golden sand as they thunder along a well-used road, but there are no islands out there, and no far-off pieces of land that could possibly be Henry’s home. He feels abruptly alone, and a little afraid, despite the excitement coursing through him.

Phillip slows to a stop as they ride into the courtyard, which is flanked with guards that salute them as they pass. Henry peers a little closer and almost falls off the horse; the guards have furry legs that end in hooves, rather than human knees and toes. He releases his hold on the back of King Edmund’s cloak; he had been unwilling to grab a stranger’s waist, and had clung instead to the soft fabric, swearing quietly under his breath as Philip jumped or sped up over uneven ground. He wasn’t a _complete_ novice when it came to horse-riding, but it was clear that he hadn’t developed his mother’s love of the sport. Regina was a natural, elegant and graceful and fast.

There’s a girl waiting on the stone steps of the castle. She’s short, young, with dark brown hair swinging around her heart-shaped face. She shouts happily as they come into view, as though she had been waiting for them, and waves. King Edmund waves back, and although Henry can’t see his face, he can tell that the other boy is smiling. King Edmund slips down off of Phillip and thanks the horse quietly, and this time when he holds a hand out to Henry, Henry accepts it gratefully. He slithers off of the horse and wobbles, tired, on the spot, his eyes drooping as he hugs the Storybook to his chest. He doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels exhausted. _At least it’s warmer here_ , he thinks.

“Edmund,” calls the girl, her voice softening as she draws closer. “I’ve been waiting! You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be!”

She’s younger than Henry, but she speaks with a simple sort of grace. She casts Henry a curious look and then flings her arms around King Edmund, who hesitates before returning the hug a little awkwardly. This, Henry assumes, is one of the Pevensie sisters. He remembers Peter, and Susan, but not the others.

“I take it you found someone on your travels,” the girl says, drawing back. She smiles kindly at Henry. “Who’s this?”

Edmund opens his mouth and then shuts it again, rubbing the back of his neck boyishly. “Technically, the beavers found him, but yes. And I – uh, I may have forgotten to ask his name.”

He looks so sheepish that Henry has to laugh.

The girl rolls her eyes and sticks her hand out. “I’m Lucy Pevensie,” she says, smiling kindly. “This dolt is my older brother.”

King Edmund nudges her with his elbow, and then leans in conspiringly, his face mere inches away from Henry. “She forgot to add her whole title. She’s Queen Lucy, the _Valiant_.”

Queen Lucy scowls and playfully smacks her brother on the shoulder, but King Edmund ducks away just in time, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Henry is a little starstruck. He’s seen pictures of them before, the Kings and Queens, when he was younger, and he remembers reading about them, but it’s another thing entirely to see all of it in action, to see the way they speak and move. He watches them for a while as they chatter back and forth, sinking into the strangeness of the moment, and then Queen Lucy turns to him with a look of shock.

“Aslan’s Mane!” she cries, and Henry almost jumps. “I’m sorry, we’ve been ignoring you. And I meant to ask for your name!”

“Henry Mills,” Henry says, and then he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. He’s tired, still, and cold, although it really is warmer here.

“Henry,” King Edmund repeats quietly, almost to himself, and both Henry and Queen Lucy turn to look at him. The boy goes bright red and coughs out something about seeing to Philip, before darting across the courtyard. Henry watches him go, and when he looks back, there’s a puzzled smile playing around Queen Lucy’s mouth.

“He’s probably just tired. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Queen Lucy says sweetly. “You look dreadfully cold, though. How about we find you a room?”

“I don’t want to bother you,” Henry says, although he doesn’t really see another option, and he definitely isn’t going to say no to a bed and some warm clothes. He’s hungry, too, now that he thinks about it.

Queen Lucy laughs, and she looks startlingly pretty. “Henry, it’s a giant castle. There’s more than enough room for you.”

 


	2. Flowers and Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry's family discover that Henry is missing, Emma and Regina hold hands and Henry gets a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some really lovely comments from some readers and decided to do another chapter rather than take the story down. It begins pretty much where it left off, but with Regina's POV.  
> Thanks so much for reading the first chapter, I hope you enjoy this one too!

The darkness never truly leaves. Regina has lived for long enough now to know that whilst it’s true that true love can conquer all, that the light can win, it’s also true that darkness leaves a stain on all it touches. And it didn’t just touch Emma; it gripped her heart with inky hands and held tight. So the road back isn’t going to be easy, and Emma stays a little sad and a lot guilty, but her face shines when she’s with the people she loves. She shines when her hand is in Regina’s, when Regina’s teasing voice tempts Emma into dancing in their garden in the middle of the night, beside the apple tree. She shines when Henry is there, rolling his eyes and sneaking her a grilled cheese from Granny’s, even as Regina berates them both fondly for not eating properly. She shines when she cradles baby Neil, when David puts his hand on her shoulder and kisses her forehead, when Mary Margaret pushes hot chocolate into her hands and then holds them, speaking softly about bravery and family and good, warm things.

Regina is glad of it. She’s glad that Emma gets to forget, for small amounts of time, and that when she remembers, it isn’t with an overwhelming sense of fear or hurt. She’s glad that even though the darkness won’t ever truly leave, the light in and around Emma is bright enough to disperse it.

It’s the only reason she doesn’t run to Emma as soon as Grace bursts through the Charming’s door, tears sliding down her pale face. Instead, Regina stands at the kitchen island and grips the counter tightly, her knuckles turning white, as something sinks inside her, something dark and full of dread.

“Grace?”

Mary Margaret – Snow, as she likes to be called now – moves straight to Grace and grips her shoulders, pulling the girl into a hug. Grace is almost seventeen now, but she’s always been small, doll-like, and she fits her head easily beneath Snow’s chin and sobs quietly.

“Grace, what happened?” Emma’s voice is unreadable, and Regina glances at her out of the corner of her eye. They’re still keeping marginally quiet about their relationship, although they don’t outright hide anything, which is why Regina is surprised when Emma strides towards her and carefully pries Regina’s hand away from the counter.

“Henry,” Grace says, between sobs, and something gets stuck in Regina’s chest. Grace pulls away from Snow and wipes her face determinedly. “He’s disappeared.”

The whole room goes cold.

David carefully ushers Neil towards the play-pen in the corner, and the boy toddles off easily, happy to sit and play with his train and stack his bricks.

“What do you mean he’s disappeared?” David says, his voice calm and strong. He moves to stand beside Snow, who reaches back to cling to his hand.

Emma laces their fingers together, and Regina can breathe again.

“He told me that you were coming over to do an assignment together,” Regina says to Grace, and fear makes her voice sharp. “I left the door unlocked…”

She trails off. God, if somebody walked in and took Henry, she’s going to make damn sure that they’re sorry. She’s going to make sure they pay. Emma squeezes her hands firmly as though she can sense where Regina’s thoughts are, and Regina abruptly realises that it’s probably because Emma’s thoughts are somewhat similar.

Grace shakes her head, her plait coming loose. She looks miserable, but she draws herself up and starts to speak, staring right at Emma and Regina.

“I was early, but I didn’t think Henry would mind, and the door was unlocked so I walked straight in,” Grace says. “I could hear him upstairs, so I went to his room and knocked on the door, and then I heard him yell something. He sounded surprised, so I walked in and …”

“And?” Emma demands.

Grace shakes her head again, this time out of puzzlement. “I watched him disappear. He was looking for something in his wardrobe, and I watched him trip and fall – and he just went right through the back of it, like there was nothing there at all. No noise, no opening, no warning. He just… vanished. Into thin air.”

More tears run down her cheeks, and Grace wipes them away impatiently.

“Not into thin air,” Snow says, shaking her head and glancing at Emma. “Through a portal. It must have been a portal, or some kind of magic. Grace, are you _sure_ you didn’t see anything?”

“I know what portals look like,” Grace says despondently. “My father has always been wonderful at making portals, but this was nothing like that. One moment he was there and the next he was gone. And I looked, I pulled everything out of the wardrobe, I even moved it away from the wall – all that was there was snow.”

Regina looks at Emma, sees her own confusion mirrored there in Emma’s beautiful, terrified eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“There was snow on his clothes, in his wardrobe, melting,” Grace says quietly, and then she wraps her arms around herself and falls onto the nearest stool, looking worn out. Snow leans down to murmur in Grace’s ear, and then she strides to the kitchen with David and the four of them huddle around the kitchen counter.

“She’s telling the truth,” Emma says immediately. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone take Henry?”

“If we were in The Enchanted Forest then I could think of plenty of reasons,” Snow says. “But Storybrooke has been peaceful for a while now. There’s no logic to it. It can’t be somebody that we know, it just can’t be.”

“Snow’s right,” David says. “It’s not likely to be a foe we’ve faced before, and I doubt that they’re here in Storybrooke, whoever they are. Nobody here would dare. Besides, I haven’t heard of anyone who leaves behind snow as a calling card.”

“We vanquished the Snow Queen,” Regina says, cutting over Emma’s protests – Emma is weirdly forgiving of the Snow Queen, for reasons that Regina can’t quite understand. “And Elsa is a friend, according to Emma.”

“She is,” Emma insists. “But we should contact her anyway. Maybe something happened in Arendelle, or maybe it was a mistake.”

Regina can hear the desperate hope in Emma’s voice, the plea for everything to just be alright, for their son to be fine and on his way home right now. She hears it and it resonates in her heart, and she has to grip Emma’s hand tightly to keep a few tears from spilling over. _This isn’t a time for crying_ , she tells herself sternly.

“If it was a mistake, I think we would know by now,” Snow says quietly. David squeezes her shoulder gently.

“Well, we’ll find out either way,” David says reassuringly. “Regina, who don’t you and Emma go back to your house and double-check the area. Maybe there’s something else there that Grace didn’t see, or maybe you can use your magic, or something.”

Regina just barely keeps from snorting derisively, but she does roll her eyes.

“Not the most eloquent, but I agree,” Regina says. Emma looks at her briefly, a fleeting warning that she’s too agitated to actually mean. “What will you and Snow do?”

“I’ll take Grace home,” David says immediately. “I’ll drop by the Sheriff Station and pick up a few things, and I can speak to Grace’s father at the same time. He’s an expert on portals, after all, maybe he can tell us something. Besides, I don’t think Grace should be alone.”

“She’s tougher than she looks, but I agree,” Snow says. “I guess that leaves me with the Golds’. Belle will want to help, which means Gold will _have_ to help.”

“It’s his grandson,” Emma says. “He’ll want to help anyway.”

“ _Everyone_ will want to help,” Regina adds, with a confidence that she doesn’t feel. Her heart stutters, and she holds tight to Emma’s hand. “It’s _Henry_.”

*

Sunlight filters weakly through the window, illuminating lazy blizzards of dust motes that swirl around the room. Henry pushes back the covers and winces as his toes hit the cold stone floor. There’s a rug, a thick red one that matches the heavy drapes, but it’s over beside the fire, not beneath the bed. The rest of the room is handsomely decorated, but it’s very clear that this is a guest room. It’s not lived in, and it’s certainly not Henry’s room. There’s a distinct lack of superhero figurines and comics lining the walls.

Henry sighs, makes his way to the adjoining room and washes his face and hands with cold water from a jug. It does little to wake him up – he’s still a bit tired from the previous day. Maybe it was the portal that knocked him back a peg or two – because now that he thinks about it, it had to have been a portal, right? People don’t just dip in and out of worlds through their wardrobe as they fancy.

It begs the question, though, if it _is_ a portal – who made it? He’s seen enough portals to last a lifetime, and they’re usually big, noisy and colourful, hard to miss. They take power, too, _real_ power, like the kind his moms’ and Grandpa and Zelena have. But Henry hadn’t noticed it at all. He’d just been looking for a place to hide his Storybook.

 _The Storybook_.

Henry whirls around, almost losing his footing, and skids back into the bedroom. He remembers, blearily, stuffing the book out of sight before he collapsed into his bed last night, still fully-clothed, but he doesn’t remember where he put it. It’s like when his mom puts things in a ‘safe place’ and then gets irritated when Emma and Henry still can’t find whatever it is, despite having scoured the house for hours in search of it. 

It takes a few seconds of throwing cushions and blankets around in a mad panic before he spots the book, wedged behind the bedside table. With a relieved sigh, he yanks it out and examines it critically, checking for rips or scratches, before tucking it safely beneath the thick mattress with a satisfied nod.

A noise diverts his attention, and Henry frowns, padding silently towards the bedroom door. He presses his ear to the cool wood and listens. He can hear murmuring on the other side, low and annoyed.

King Edmund is standing outside of his room, holding a bunch of brightly-coloured flowers and muttering under his breath. He doesn’t even notice Henry opening the door, and he’s got this look on his face like he’s about to run away, so Henry clears his throat loudly. King Edmund whips his head up and freezes, staring at Henry with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Henry blinks at him a little blearily, still half-asleep, and watches the tips of King Edmund’s ears turn red.

“These are for you.”

Flowers are thrust directly in Henry’s face, and he does a double-take, one of his arms flailing out to the side before he hesitantly accepts them. He’s never been given flowers before – are boys _usually_ given flowers? Does it matter? Or maybe it’s an odd Narnian custom that wasn’t mentioned in the book. His confusion must be written all over his face, because King Edmund hastens to explain.

“They’re from Lucy,” King Edmund says. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, Henry notes in bemusement; first they land on his hips, then they jump to scratch his jaw, and finally he rakes a hand through his black hair before tucking them behind his back, out of sight. Henry watches him; he’s never seen anyone so fidgety since Emma tried to ask Regina out on a date for the first time. It had been hilarious, and a little bit painful to watch – Henry’s never seen someone pick up a cup of coffee only to put it back down again that many times.

“Well, technically, they’re from all of us,” King Edmund asks, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. “Susan suggested it and Peter thought it might be nice if you knew you were welcome here, although I think he might just have been parroting Susan to keep the girls happy. He does that, sometimes, when they start talking about balls and clothes and things.”

Henry grins then, thinks of Regina. “My mom does that too,” Henry says. “Sometimes when I talk about video games, her eyes just glaze right over.”

King Edmund tilts his head to the side, curious. “Video games?”

 _Oh, right,_ Henry thinks. _Different era._

Henry clears his throat and adjusts his grip on the flowers, bringing them up to his nose; the scent of honey and lilies is overwhelming, and enough to distract him from his slip-up. When he looks back up, King Edmund is watching him with an expression of pure fascination, like he’s just seen a dog perform a trick for the first time and is wondering what else he can teach it to do.

“Thanks for these,” Henry says, because his family taught him to be polite, and he knows he’d get skinned alive for anything less if Emma or Regina ever found out. Or his Grandmas’. And Grandads’, come to that – basically the whole of Storybrooke Maine.

“As I said, it was mostly the girls’ idea,” King Edmund says, shifting where he stands. “Lucy dragged me out to the gardens and the dryads helped us choose nice ones, but Lucy picked them all and made me deliver them, so they’re from her, really. Not that I didn’t want to deliver them, obviously, they’re from me as well. All of us, really.”

King Edmund stops, blows out a frustrated breath and drags his hand through his hair again. “What I’m trying to say is –”

“Good morning?” Henry suggests, grinning.

“ _Exactly!_ ” King Edmund says, a little louder than he obviously meant to. He pauses again, makes a resigned face and then shrugs, a little wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Good morning. That’s what I meant to say. You know, I’m usually a lot more articulate than this.”

Henry snorts a laugh and leans back into his room so that he can rest the flowers on the dresser, beside an ornate silver hand-mirror and a little trinket box. Henry tries not to look at them, or the flowered wallpaper, or the deep red curtains; every strange detail makes him a little more homesick. Still, he pushes the feeling away and turns back to King Edmund, who’s studying him intently again.  

“Thank you, again,” Henry says, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “Not for the flowers, for yesterday. I probably would have frozen to death if you hadn’t brought me back here.”

King Edmund smirks at him. “What kind of person do you think I am? Besides, even if I was the worst person in Narnia, I couldn’t have ignored you. For one thing, Mrs Beaver would have thrown the biggest fit in the world, and then my sisters would have skinned me alive once I got home. And for another, you looked so lost and hopeless. It would’ve been like kicking a kitten.”

Henry narrows his eyes at him, about to snap back a reply when a huge yawn catches him off-guard. He blinks at Edmund in surprise, and almost misses the second, wider smirk.

“See, like a kitten,” King Edmund says. “Or some other rottenly adorable creature that Lucy’s obsessed with.”

Henry quirks an eyebrow. “Are you calling me adorable?”

King Edmund opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

Henry grins. “Only my moms’ call me adorable, and that’s when they want to annoy me.”

“Well, that definitely wasn’t my intention,” King Edmund mutters, a little disgruntled. “Breakfast is down in the dining hall, if you’re hungry. Do you remember how to get there?”

Henry didn’t remember how to get there, despite briefly stepping inside with Queen Lucy to snag a bread roll and a drink of something warm and fruity before he went to sleep last night. King Edmund waits patiently until Henry locates his socks and shoes – he slept in his clothes – and then leads him through the maze of hallways. The castle looks different in the morning light, mesmerizingly beautiful. King Edmund leads him down to the dining hall, hands buried in his pockets as he talks about his brothers and sisters, the weather, what they’re having for breakfast, and then he eventually goes quiet as he pushes open the door.

Henry steps inside and immediately feels underdressed.

Heavy golden drapes and impressive oak floorboards, large ornate frames filled with beautiful paintings hanging all over the walls, and a fire the size of a small pony roaring in the hearth across the room. A massive, rectangular dining table spans the length of the room, decorated with a thick tablecloth and laden with all sorts of fruits, rolls, pots of tea and jugs of juice.

There are three people seated at one end of the table, murmuring to each other quietly. The chatter cuts off as the double doors slide smoothly shut behind them, and King Edmund gives Henry an encouraging nod as he heads towards the table.

Queen Lucy greets him first, standing up out of excitement and waving, despite being only a foot away. Her hair falls in wild tangles and there’s a smear of dirt on her chin, but her eyes are bright and sparkling. King Edmund gently shoves Henry into the nearest chair and then takes a seat himself, leaning the chair back on two legs.

“Morning, Henry,” Queen Lucy says, smiling grinning. “Henry, this is Susan. Susan, this is –”

“Henry, yes, Lu,” says Queen Susan, rolling her eyes. “I gathered. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Henry. Help yourself to whatever you fancy. There’s more than enough here.”

She smiles, and Henry manages not to blush; she’s very beautiful, the way paintings and statues are, like a piece of exquisite art. Her porcelain skin is dotted with freckles, just like Edmund’s, but her hair is lighter and longer, falling in gentle ringlets around her shoulders. Her eyes are different too.

Henry feels something stick in his throat when he tries to speak, so he looks at his plate and mumbles his gratitude. He’s not usually quiet, and he’s never had a problem talking before – his moms generally agree that it’s getting him to shut up that’s the trick.

The boy at the end of the table snorts. “It’s been a total of three seconds and you’ve already broken him, Susan. That must be a new record.”

Susan narrows her eyes and butters a roll. She manages to make the action appear dainty and threatening all at once, enough that the older boy shifts uncomfortably in his seat and avoids her gaze. Edmund snickers, and the older boy narrows his eyes at him.

“You’re King Peter, aren’t you?” Henry blurts out, before he can help himself. “High King Peter, the Magnificent?” He doesn’t know why the title sticks with him, but it’s the first thing he can remember _clearly_ from the books. Embarrassingly, he thinks it might be because he wanted desperately to be like Peter when he was younger, wanted to be a hero, wanted to raise his sword up high and charge into a battlefield.

He knows better, now, that there are other ways to be a hero.

The boy – the _man_ , Henry supposes, although there’s still something boyish about his blonde hair and tanned face – looks suspiciously at Henry for a moment. “I am,” he says. “Although I’m not that fond of the title.”

Edmund snorts. “There’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

King Peter ignores this. “Ed told us that you fell through a wardrobe and into Narnia, and that the Beavers were the ones who found you.” He shares a glance with his siblings, something nostalgic and slightly wistful. “Did you come from our world?”

Henry ponders this for a moment, because he both does and he doesn’t. He’s torn between telling them that yes, he comes from the same world that they do, that he knows of their stories, because they are real, published stories, but he has a feeling that it’s just going to make things complicated. They’re from a different era. Technically, Henry is from their future, he guesses. Or an alternate version of their future, maybe? He doesn’t know.

“The Enchanted Forest,” Henry blurts out. All four Pevensies’ turn to look at him oddly, surprised, and Henry selects a grape to keep his eyes averted. “I’m from The Enchanted Forest, but I do know of your world. I’ve spent some time there.”

He selects another grape, and then another, and then hungrily fills his plate with food, his stomach rumbling abruptly as he remembers how hungry he is. He ignores the intense stare that Edmund keeps directed at the side of his head, and glances up at King Peter instead. There’s a sort of despondency in his face, and then the older boy sighs and shrugs.

“I’ll admit, I was hoping for news of our old home,” King Peter says, and grins a little sheepishly when Queen Susan scolds him.

Lucy leans over her breakfast and says eagerly, “The Enchanted Forest sounds lovely! What’s it like there? Is it anything like Narnia?”

Edmund arches an eyebrow and snags an apple from the bowl in front of him. “He’s been in Narnia for little more than a day, Lu. How’s he supposed to know what it’s like here?”

Lucy claps her hands together. “What a great idea, Ed! We can show you around Narnia, Henry, if you’d like? It really is beautiful. You can meet our people, too, and maybe –”

“Lucy,” Edmund cuts in, sharply. “Henry probably wants to go home.”

It brings Lucy up short, and she bites her lip. “Oh. Oh, yes, I suppose I didn’t think of that. Sorry, Henry.”

She looks so crestfallen that Henry has to smile. He can’t deny that Edmund is right though. “I do want to go home. I expect my family’s pretty worried about me.”

Edmund makes a small noise beside him and then bites into his apple harshly.

“Still,” Henry adds, “I don’t exactly know how to get back home. I don’t even know where home is, actually.”

He feels fear start to bloom in his chest, and if he grips the edge of the table hard, nobody mentions anything. He has no idea if there’s a way to get from Narnia back into his world, and he doesn’t remember anything in the books that suggested that the Pevensie’s were magical. How is he supposed to make a portal back home without magic, or knowledge, or _anything?_

“We’ll find a way to get you home, Henry,” Queen Susan promises him, with a severe look at King Peter. “There are thousands of books here, and Narnia is a magical place, full of magical creatures. There’s bound to be someone who will know of a way to return to your land.”

Henry lets out a breath, relieved. “Thank you, Queen Susan.”

“You don’t have to call us King’s and Queen’s,” Lucy says, laughing.

Henry smiles at her. She reminds him a little of Grace, when Grace was younger. “So, I suppose, as long as we look for a way to send me back, it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time exploring Narnia.”

Lucy’s face lights up brightly.

“That’s if you wouldn’t mind,” Henry adds hastily, directing his gaze to King Peter and catching Edmund’s small smile in the process. It catches him off guard, and he can’t help but stare – it’s a nice sight, that’s all – and almost completely misses Peter’s reassurances that of course he can stay, and of course they’ll help.

Lucy is off immediately, ticking off a list of places on her fingers, and Susan starts to mutter about finding him some proper clothes if he’s going to stay – Henry hasn’t missed her disapproving looks at his scarf, which he grabbed before he left – but Henry barely hears it all, because Edmund might be able to hide a smile behind his apple, but he can’t hide the way his ears go red when Henry grins back at him shyly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? Leave a comment/kudos on your way out and thank you, as always! 
> 
> 'Coconutcranberries' on tumblr :)


	3. Hags and Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search for a way home begins, and Edmund begins to suspect some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I thought of this story but the new series of OUAT is out and I need to watch it, so. It's really fun squishing this Universe together, but my Narnian knowledge mostly comes from the films - I haven't read the books in years, so, I'm sorry about any and all inaccuracies! I hope at least one person enjoys this fic :) Thank you so much!

“There’s nothing here.”

Bedsprings creak as Emma sits down heavily on the edge of Henry’s bed, and Regina doesn’t look at her. She keeps staring at the blank pane of wood at the back of Henry’s wardrobe. The wardrobe is empty, all of Henry’s clothes and shoes piled up in the corner of the room, and all that’s left is too bare clothes hangers and the bare wood. Regina runs her fingers over the back of the wardrobe, but it’s just wood. There’s no presence here, no remnant of magic.

“Portals usually leave behind a magical residue,” Regina says, not for the first time. “There’s always something left behind, but there’s nothing here. It’s just a wardrobe.”

“Regina,” Emma says, but then she purses her lips. “What if…?”

“No,” Regina says immediately. “We aren’t going there. We are going to figure out what’s happened to him, and then we’re going to get our son back. And God help whoever’s responsible for this in the first place.”

Emma runs her hands over Henry’s bedspread and finds his coat, folded messily at the end of it. She picks it up and holds it close, staring at Regina over the top of it. Henry’s room feels a thousand times emptier without him in it. Regina moves to sit beside Emma, and Emma’s hand drifts from Henry’s coat to Regina’s thigh, and squeezes comfortingly.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says. “You’re right. We’re going to find him, and I know I haven’t been all there recently, but I’m here now.”

“Let’s think about it logically,” Regina says, squeezing Emma’s hand in return. “In all likelihood, he’s somewhere in The Enchanted Forest. That’s where most portals end up, after all, but Grace mentored snow, so it could be in a part of the land that I don’t know about yet, He went in through a wardrobe, and not of his own accord, either, so someone on the other side wanted him there.”

“And they definitely wanted Henry in particular,” Emma adds. “Or they wouldn’t have put the portal in such a specific location. Who else is going to be rummaging through his wardrobe?”

“Who might want Henry?” Regina asks.

“We need to make a list,” Emma says grimly. “Snow and David can help. We need a list of everyone who may or may not want Henry for some reason. That includes any enemies that we haven’t encountered yet, anyone who might have a grudge against you or any of us.”

They meet each other’s eyes in grave silence. It was not going to be a short list.

 *

Henry wobbles a little, but doesn’t fall. His horse, Valorie, simply shifts to adjust her weight, and Henry stays in the saddle.

“Why can’t this horse talk?” Henry asks, as Edmund reaches up to untangles the reins. Edmund fairly tall, but he still has to stand up on his toes.

“Valorie isn’t a Talking Horse,” Edmund explains. “Talking Horses aren’t strictly supposed to be ridden, but Phillip has never been one for traditions. He’s the exception.” Edmund casts a fond look over his shoulder at Phillip, who is helping himself to hay that sticks out over the stable doors. They’re in the courtyard again, the sun glinting off of the frost, and Henry is an overwhelming mix of nervous and excited.

“I guess that makes sense,” Henry says. Edmund hands him the reins with a reassuring sliver of a smile, pats Valorie’s mane and then strides away. Henry grips the reins tightly and tries not to panic. He’s done this before, in Camelot, but that was with his family around him.

“You look uncomfortable,” Lucy remarks, as she draws closer. She hands him a leather bag, packed with bread and fruit and cheese. The water-skeins are full of something red and sweet.

“It’s the cloak.” Henry adjusts the gold clasp holding his pale white cloak together. The fur itches slightly, but at least he’s warm.

“You get used to it. And the corsets, although you don’t have to worry about that.”

Henry grins at her as he attaches the bag to the saddle. “I think the cloak is more than enough.”

“I wish I could go with you both,” Lucy says, pouting slightly. “We still have to go to classes, even though we aren’t at school anymore. At least the lessons are a little more interesting here, and I get to learn from Dryads and Nymphs, rather than stuffy old Mrs Anstruther.”

“Doesn’t King Edmund have classes too?” Henry glances over at Edmund, who’s busy discussing something quietly with a nearby guard.

“He does, but not today,” Lucy says. “And even if he did, something tells me that he wouldn’t be attending them.”

She backs away before Henry can ask what she means, and she stands in the courtyard and waves them off, her cloak blowing wildly in the wind. Henry pulls his own cloak around him as Valorie trots after Edmund and their companions – a leopard with strange markings on its face, and two bright-eyed fauns – and soon finds himself overwhelmed by the beauty of this place. There are trees all around, moving and dancing, and there are bright open plains filled with sweet-smelling flowers and dusty roads, and even though there is frost on every petal and leaf, it is not a smothering kind of cold. It is simply winter.

“You should see this place in the summer,” Edmund says, when they stop to drink. Henry sips from his canteen and pictures pink petals in the wind, warm evenings and fresh linen hanging from the lines by the river by the Cair. If he thinks hard enough, he can feel the sun on his face. There is a taste of fruit in the air, sweet and succulent.

“It used to be winter all the time here, didn’t it?” Henry asks. “Until you broke it.”

Edmund looks at him sharply. “How did you know that?”

“Mrs Beaver told me,” Henry lies hastily, water trickling over his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve as Edmund watches him carefully. Henry knows that Edmund doesn’t believe him. It’s obvious in his eyes, and the way he regards Henry carefully at times, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Henry to snap and reveal a dark side. Henry wishes that he didn’t have to lie – he doesn’t want to give Edmund any reason not to trust him, doesn’t want to turn any of the Pevensies against him, and, surprisingly, it’s not just because he needs their help.

His flaw, while not a fatal one, is significantly troubling nonetheless. Henry wants to be _good_. He wants people to look at him, no matter who they are, and see light and good and kind. He wants to be the good guy in the story. He wants people to like him.

He wants Edmund to like him.

“The Beavers do like to tell that story,” Edmund says quietly. “I think it’s because they’re in it.”

It’s an offering, an olive branch of sorts, and Henry accepts it gratefully, with a weak smile.

It takes an hour before they reach the High Fells. A mountain rises up above them as they disembark, and Henry pats Valorie’s mane as his feet hit solid ground.

“I didn’t fall off,” Henry says, grinning.

“You sound surprised,” Edmund says, a brief flicker of concern evident on his face. “If I’d known that was a possibility, I would have slowed down the party.”

“It’s fine,” Henry says. “I’m just out of practice. My mother is a natural, though. She’s taught me everything I know, which admittedly isn’t a lot, but that’s my fault, not hers.”

“She sounds like an interesting woman.”

Henry grins widely. “You have no idea.”

Edmund sweeps a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. He’s got short, thick hair that curls at the ends and makes his skin look even more pale. Henry drags a hand through his own hair, aware that it’s probably stuck to his head from riding, and then he wonders why he cares at all.

“What are we doing here?”

“The Fell creatures are my people,” Edmund explains. They walk, leaving the horses behind, until they reach the treeline. The trees are thin and widely spread, enough so that an army could march through comfortably in long lines if they wished. Snow falls in light piles, and stiff leaves crunch beneath Henry’s shoes. “You were right, when you said that we broke winter’s hold on Narnia, but that didn’t mean we could just get rid of everyone who ever opposed us. It was a time of war, after all, and not everyone is on the right side.”

“So you won the war,” Henry says slowly, “and whoever was left behind, from the bad side, came here? And you rule them.”

Edmund nodded. “That’s the gist of it, although I don’t like to think in terms of good and bad. Some people made the wrong choice because there _was_ no choice. Some were coerced or forced into it, others were manipulated since birth to believe certain things. I know, better than most, that things aren’t as black and white as they seem.”

Edmund’s face grows dark, and Henry wants to reach out. Instead, he stumbles over a root and then yelps when a branch coils around his waist, steadying him. He blinks in surprise as the branch retreats, waving finger-like twigs in his face. When he looks up, Edmund’s face is soft, with no hint of darkness anywhere.

“This place is amazing,” Henry says.

“You’re American,” Edmund says.

Henry lifts a brow. “Did it take you this long to figure it out?”

“I wouldn’t be a very good King if that were true.”

“I haven’t known you that long,” Henry teases. “You could be awful.”

Edmund looks so affronted that Henry splutters a laugh, almost tripping again.

“I assure you that I’m a very good King,” Edmund says huffily, although he doesn’t actually look annoyed. “I was rubbish at first. I skipped ten council meetings in a row and Peter damn near ripped my head off each time. He hid all of the liquorice and I wasn’t allowed any for a month.”

“I’ve never had to deal with older brothers,” Henry says. “Or younger ones.”

“Consider yourself lucky then,” Edmund says. Henry can tell that he doesn’t mean that either. There is something evident in all of the Pevensie’s faces when they speak about each other, something so bright and warm and loving that it makes Henry want to turn his head away. Edmund continues to talk about Peter and the horror of having no sweets when he was younger, and then he talks about throwing himself into work and research the older he grew, and how he has a library just for him in the confines of the Cair, and how Henry has to see it before he leaves. Henry agrees, listening, with the smallest of smiles on his face, until they reach a pathway carved into the earth.

“The first village is just down here,” Edmund says, pointing through a pack of thicker trees. He reached out almost absentmindedly and grasps Henry’s sleeve, tugging him down the path. A Nymph peels away from a tree and giggles as she dances around them, her hair a mass of ivy, her dress sewn from dark bark. She ghosts a petal-soft hand along Henry’s cheek, and then blows Edmund a kiss before disappearing.

“This place is amazing,” Henry says again, louder this time, and Edmund smirks at him.

The first village is large, sprawling. There are houses fashioned from bark and stone, with doors and curtains made out of thick, waxy leaves. Small campfires glisten in circles of stones, dotted about the place, and Henry stops by a tree and watches, his eyes wide as he takes it all in. There are strange creatures everywhere, ragged women with beaks hanging out clothes to dry, wolves that walk on their hind legs and a few bearded dwarves sat on the ground, riffling through heavy leather bags. Several people look up as Edmund walks slowly through the village, and some grow tense, and others soften.

It is easy to see that Edmund is a King, here.

It is a different sort of presence to Peter’s. Edmund is not loud or bright or commanding, but there is something about him that makes the woods grow quieter. He exudes an air of calm certainty, an assuredness that he belongs here, among these people. These Narnians.

Henry walks through the village too, enamoured with everything. He ends up seated next to a campfire, watching a bundle of tiny little werewolves playing in the snow, listening to a red-headed dwarf explain the advantages of Black Dwarf daggers over Red Dwarf swords. Henry doesn’t catch the dwarf’s name, but he doesn’t need it in the end. The dwarf speaks so quickly and aggressively that there’s no space for Henry to get a word in edgeways, so he just sits and listens, slightly bemused.

Edmund keeps catching his eye as he strolls around the village, talking in low voices and addressing concerns. Henry can’t tell if he’s supposed to follow Edmund or just not get into trouble, but Edmund keeps getting further away, and Henry doesn’t like the idea of being left behind in a strange village, no matter how nice the inhabitants seem.

He makes his excuses to the dwarf, hesitantly, and then fumbles the dagger that’s thrust into his hands. It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship – even Henry’s untrained eye can see that – and he runs a finger over the discreet red gems set into the bronze hilt.

“I don’t have any money,” Henry says.

“Don’t mention it,” the dwarf says gruffly, waving a hand at him. Henry stutters a thank you and takes it a little reluctantly – surely it’s a waste, to give away something so beautiful to someone who won’t use it, for no sum of money?

“It’s beautiful,” Henry says. The dwarf’s cheeks go red and he grumbles something before shooing Henry away.

Edmund is waiting for him at the end of the village, near a steep hill at the edge of the treeline. He arches an eyebrow at the dagger, and Henry tries to pass it to him, only for Edmund to hold up his hands.

“I can’t take that,” Edmund says. “It’s something of a welcoming gift. A sign of trust.”

“Trust?”

Edmund sighs. “The other Narnians, the ones who fought against the White Witch, they don’t forgive easily, especially when the crimes committed are against Aslan. Narnia is supposed to be a place of love and acceptance, and freedom, and in some eyes, like Lucy’s, it is.”

“Lucy doesn’t seem that naïve,” Henry says slowly.

“She isn’t,” Edmund says fondly. “She just prefers to be see the best in people. But the Fell creatures aren’t treated well by other Narnians. That’s why most of them have fled to these woods, and to the mountains. I’ve tried, over the years to get people to see how different they are, but it’s not easy. This is safer, at least until things have settled further.”

Edmund looks frustrated, and Henry can’t blame him. It has to be frustrating, to see the beauty and calm in these villages, and to want to help them, only to go home and be told how monstrous these Fell creatures are by the Narnians that are supposed to love them.

“What about your brothers and sisters?” Henry asks. “Can’t they help you?”

Edmund mutters something unflattering under his breath.

“That’s a no, then,” Henry says, amused. He holds out the dagger again as they duck under a tree, heading for the path that slopes up the nearest, smallest mountain. “You still didn’t tell me why I have this, or what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Edmund snorts. “You don’t know what a dagger’s for?”

“I know what it’s for, I just don’t know where to put it, or why I’d ever use it.”

“I told you, it was a gift. For being decent enough to sit and listen to a banished dwarf without a single derisive comment, or fear,” Edmund explains patiently. Then he comes to a stop and beckons Henry closer. “And it’s always good to be prepared. Lucy was given a knife when she was only nine.”

“From Santa,” Henry mutters, remembering. He takes a step closer and then winces at the sharp look on Edmund’s face. He’s got to stop doing that.

“Did Mrs Beaver tell you about that as well?” Edmund says lightly.

“Not quite,” Henry admits. “I don’t think I can tell you how I know, though.”

Edmund doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches over and moves Henry’s cloak to the side, before hooking a finger in the belt Henry had been forced to wear that morning. Henry’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as Edmund deftly takes the dagger from him, twirling it through his fingers before he slips it into place on the belt, hooking it carefully into a leather sheath.

“Don’t stab yourself,” Edmund murmurs.

Henry glances up, and their eyes meet. They both glance away quickly, and Edmund clears his throat before marching off towards the sloping path.

“Not far to go,” he calls over his shoulder. Henry stays where he is for a moment, feeling remarkably light-headed, and then hurries off after Edmund, who sets a fast pace as he jogs up the mountain path. It’s just them, although Henry can see the leopard and one of the fauns when he turns to look behind him, standing to attention at the edge of the village.

The next village, which is hidden further up the mountain, has been built inside a cave. The mouth of the cave is wide and obscured by a curtain of green ivy, and Henry can hear music from inside, strangely loud and hollow like the cave itself. Edmund waits for him to draw closer before he sweeps the curtain aside and walks in, his footsteps echoing loudly off of the rock walls. Henry follows him in and blinks in surprise.

Haggard looking creatures are littered everywhere. Balls of fire float in the air, glowing brightly, their light flickering into the corners of the cave, which stretches so far back into the mountain that Henry can’t see where it ends.

“Hags,” Edmund says, out of the corner of his mouth. “The ones in this village have magic. C’mon, there’s one in particular we want to see.”

Henry sticks close to Edmund’s side, a little unnerved. The music grows louder, solemn and sad, and Henry spots one hag moving her claws over an oddly-shaped pipe. Yellow eyes follow them as they step through the cave, until Edmund comes to another curtain, this time made of what appears to be honeysuckle. Henry doesn’t ask how it grows in here, in the dark and damp, protruding from the cold rock. He just lightly grips one of Edmund’s sleeves and follows him through it.

A Hag looks up from where she’s perched on a rock, and her expression becomes grim as she recognises Edmund.

“Little King,” she shrieks, in a shrill voice. “What can I do for you and your… friend?”

Edmund glances sideways at Henry. His voice, when he speaks, carries. It’s firm and loud and it fills up the whole mountain from root to brim with authority and strength.

“We’ve come to seek your expert opinion,” Edmund says.

“Flattery will not win you any friends here,” the Hag says, eyeing Henry strangely. Henry watches her in return, taking in the ragged black feathers and the sharp, grey beak that looks as though it could rip leather to ribbons.

“I am not looking for friends,” Edmund says. “I am here for help. A favour, if you will.”

The Hag’s mouth twitches. “A favour from a King, no matter how little he may be, is not something I would pass up on any given day. What is it that you wish to know?”

Edmund turns to Henry with an encouraging look, and Henry flounders for a moment. Then he clears his throat and steps forward nervously, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, which has come untucked. He ends up kneeling, quite without his conscious permission, in front of the Hag’s perch as he tells her his story, outlining the situation carefully. He doesn’t want to give away anything too damning.

The Hag slips off of her perch and kneels in front of him, putting one claw under his chin and lifting Henry’s head up so that she can peer into his eyes. Edmund makes a cut-off noise, and Henry wants to turn, but he can’t. There is something so transfixing about the Hag’s gaze that he cannot look away. There is a wealth of wisdom behind those yellow eyes, and they are not just yellow, but amber and golden and liquid sunlight.

The Hag’s mouth twitches. “They’re just eyes, young believer. Eyes that have seen many things, but not something like this.”

Henry’s breath catches in his throat.

Edmund’s hand lands heavily on Henry’s shoulder and Henry finds himself being yanked upright and shoved behind Edmund slightly, so that the boy is in front of him, guarding him. Henry feels warm all over.

The Hag makes a noise that could be a laugh before she stands and begins to chant, low and fast under her breath. Light fills the little cave, and then vanishes just as quickly, chased away by a thick darkness.

“What was that?” Edmund demands. “What did you do?”

“I sent answers to your home,” the Hag says. “Books and scrolls and things you will need if you want to send your boy home. Portals are not unheard of in Narnia. The Wood between World’s is a land strictly made of openings and closings, and I think, should the Lion will it, you may find the right door to take you home again.”

“We thank you for your assistance,” Edmund says, with a stiff bow. “Should you need my help, ever, call on me and I will answer.”

“Oh, I will, Little King,” the Hag says softly. "I will."

Henry can still feel her eyes on him when they ride into Cair Paravel, hours later, as the sun is setting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was alright, I hope you enjoyed reading it! My tumblr is @thealmostrhetoricalquestion if you'd like to come and say hello! Thank you! :)


	4. Libraries and Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund and Henry get closer, and then Giants happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my knowledge of Narnia is so rusty, I don't even remember if Ettesmore is a thing, or if there are giants there. I could be confusing it with Lord of the Rings, so I'm sorry if that's true. Feel free to correct me! And thank you for the lovely response to the previous chapter, I hope you like this one too! Things are progressing a little now :)

Edmund doesn't drink, so the crystal decanter on the oak table is empty, but there is something about the warm firelight playing over the lines of Edmunds face that makes Henry feel as though he's drunk a whole bottle of whiskey, as though the whole room is doused in alcohol. He's loose-limbed, curled up in the large, red armchair with his feet tucked under him, a book open in his lap, pages caught between lazy fingers. He keeps his heavy-lidded gaze on Edmund as he paces back and forth slowly, massaging his temples and muttering under his breath, occasionally ticking things off on his fingers as they occur to him, or coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room before shaking his head and continuing to pace. When he almost trips in the middle of the heart rug, Henry reaches out and tugs lightly on the untucked hem of Edmund's white shirt until Edmund pauses and looks at him. His gaze softens immediately as Henry blinks up at him, frown smoothing out. 

"You're giving yourself a headache," Henry murmurs, still tugging on his shirt. "Just sit down for a moment, before you fall down and make an idiot of yourself. Or don't, I could do with a laugh." 

Edmund snorts and then drops onto the floor, sitting on the rug and leaning back against Henry's chair, facing the fire, the back of his head facing Henry. There is something petulant about the way he sits, with his knees pulled up to his chest, like he's been put on the naughty step. Henry makes a noise of amusement and hesitantly reaches out a hand, running it gently through the soft black curls at the top of his head. Edmund sighs, and Henry can feel the tension leave the room as he relaxes back against the chair, his head lolling back slightly to give Henry better access. 

If it were another evening, if Henry was less relaxed, if the warmth of the room wasn't quite as inviting, Henry may not have reached out. 

"It's so frustrating," Edmund says, in a low voice that is barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "We've got all of the information here, at our fingertips, but I can't make head nor tail of it. There's plenty on portals, but none of the books mention specifics, and all of the Old Scrolls are written in a different dialect, so I can't understand them. I've half a mind to go back and poke that Hag repeatedly between the eyes until she gives us an answer." 

Henry laughs quietly. "You don't mean that. Besides, I've seen you the past few days. You're enjoying the challenge." 

Edmund grumbles something in response, but doesn't argue. There's no point; Henry's been at his side for the past three days, since they got back from the Fell villages, helping Edmund sort through books and diagrams and unravelling scrolls, sticking pins in maps and rifling through papers, taking tea on the rug when they're worn out and their eyes ache. He's seen Edmund with his head pillowed on a book, mouth open in a surprisingly loud snore, and drooling a little in a very undignified manner. He's seen Edmund accidentally take a bite out of a quill rather than the food on his plate. He's seen Edmund frantically throwing things about before collapsing into a chair and groaning about High Kings and duties and how awful magic is, and the one thing Henry's concluded is that Edmund loves this. He loves the research, the finding and the searching and the learning. He doesn't quite have the patience for it, in the long run, but he still loves it, and Henry would bet money that given the choice between a castle full of books and mystery and a battlefield full of honour and glory, Edmund would choose the former, every time. 

Another thing that Henry's come to a conclusion about is himself, but the mere thought makes him antsy, so he cards his fingers through Edmunds hair and tries not to think about how nothing he learns or sees about the Edmund could ever scare him away. Edmund could be the most ridiculous, awful person in the whole world, and Henry would still be inexplicably drawn to him. 

"We should probably go to bed," Edmund murmurs. Evening has fallen, and Henry's book is moments from falling too, but he simply hums and tugs on a lock of hair, almost missing the soft sigh that escapes Edmund. 

"Henry?" 

Henry's eyes are closed, but he isn't sleeping. No, he's simply resting, just closing his eyes for a moment whilst his hand automatically drags itself through Edmunds hair. Then Edmund is gone, and the book in his lap is being spirited away by some unknown force, and something soft is wedged carefully between his head and the chair. He hums happily, a dazed, sleepy sound, when he feels his own hair being pushed back from his forehead with surprising gentleness, and then he drifts away. 

Minutes later, as the fire is dying down, the door to the library cracks open. 

"Ed?" 

"Hey, Lu. Not so loud." 

"Hmm? Oh. Oh, that's sweet. He's going to wake up with an aching neck though." 

"I put a pillow there. Need something?" 

"I came to see how the search is going. We've barely seen the two of you since you got back from visiting the Fell Villages, and Susan's driving me nuts with all this talk of the Winter Ball." 

"Oh blimey, didn't we just have a Ball?" 

"That was a banquet, Ed, do keep up." 

"You sound more and more like Su each day. What's this Ball about, then?" 

"I think it's partly to honour the season, partly to deal with the newly-crowned Princess from across the Sea, the one that _you_ offended, and partly because of Henry." 

"Henry? What about Henry?" 

"Well... Oh, look, Ed, there's no easy way to say this, but you must have thought that maybe he won't be going home at all. Or at least not until Aslan's ready for him to leave."

"Mmm." 

"Ed? Oh, Ed, don't be cross with me." 

"I'm not cross. I've thought about it a few times, but there's no way to bring it up that isn't going to end badly. He misses his family, Lu. It's different than it was with us. I know we miss mum and dad, but at least we all have each other. Henry's got nobody." 

"That's not true, Ed. He's got us. He's got you." 

"Lucy." 

"Relax, Edmund. I might be the youngest, but I'm not stupid, and I do have eyes, you know. But I'm not going to bring it up anymore, just as long as you both know that he's not alone in this." 

"Yeah. Still not quite the same though, is it?" 

"I guess it isn't. I think that’s what this Ball’s all about, to make him feel welcome. Susan's already started picking out tablecloths." 

"Tell her that the Hag put a curse on the books and we’re both confined to the library for the rest of the year." 

"She'd just throw the Ball in the library, you know she would. No, we're going to have to wear dresses and suits and fancy shoes, and we're jolly well going to have to be happy about it." 

"Fine, _fine_. It could be interesting, at the very least." 

"Just please don't start any fires this time."

"No promises, Lu." 

*

"So, when are you going to tell me that it's hopeless, then?" 

Edmund almost falls off his chair. He _does_ drop his quill, which floats to the floor and lands by Henry’s feet. Henry plucks it off of the floor and passes it back to Edmund, who's watching him with a wary, confused expression. 

"What are you talking about?" 

Henry sighs and fiddles with the bedsheets. He's perched on the edge of Edmund's bed, feeling a little out of place and fighting the urge to rip the itchy collar off of his new shirt. He only came in to ask if Edmund was coming to lunch, and then it somehow turned into waiting whilst Edmund finished a letter, and now he finds himself about to start an extremely difficult conversation. 

"The portals," Henry clarifies. "Getting me home, back to – back to the Enchanted Forest. When are you going to admit that it's probably not going to happen?" 

"Who told you that?" Edmund demands, standing up.

"I heard you and Lucy talking in the library last night," Henry admits. "She said I might not be able to leave until Aslan wills it." 

Edmund visibly hesitates before he moves closer. It's odd - they had been closer before, in the library, but things aren't as easy in the light of day, and Henry finds himself wishing that either of them would reach out. Instead, Henry tucks his hands under his arms and Edmund leans against the bedpost, hip cocked as he thinks of what to say. 

"There's a possibility," Edmund says slowly, "that you won't be able to get home until you're meant to. And I know that doesn't make much sense, but there's deep magic in Narnia, and I don't know how else to explain it. We were only able to come through the wardrobe because the magic allowed it, because Aslan allowed it. The same could be said for you." 

"How long? How long do you think it will be before I can go home?" 

Edmund sighs, obviously torn, and then he sits on the edge of the bed with Henry and bumps their shoulders together. 

"I don't know," Edmund admits. "Until you do whatever it is you need to do. Until Narnia thinks you're ready. Mistakes rarely happen here: if you're in Narnia, it's because you're _supposed_ to be." 

Henry looks at the floor. "So, my family..." 

"We don't know how it works, exactly," Edmund says, and Henry glances up sharply at the pained note in his voice. "Our mother... it's not that I don't remember England. It's just that it's never on my mind. I don’t think about it often. I think Aslan will have taken care of everything, though. I _have_ to believe He has."  

"Time passes differently where I come from," Henry says, hesitant to share too much. "And my family have all lost each other far too many times to count, but we always get each other back, too. If they know I'm missing, they won't stop searching." 

"Then maybe you'll be home sooner than we all think," Edmund offers softly. "I'm not going to give up, anyway. We're going to keep looking for a way to get you home.”

Henry looks at him with a small, grateful smile, and then ducks his head. 

"Thanks," he murmurs, and Edmund bumps their shoulders again. 

"Anytime."

*

"Giants," Peter says grimly, marching into the dining hall. "Come down from Ettesmore. Three in total, all gone rogue and attacked the nearest Fell village. I don't know how many are injured." 

Edmund stands up immediately, his chair scraping against the floor. Both of the Pevensie sisters stand as well, their eyes narrowed as Peter outlines the course of action. Henry feels small suddenly, surrounded by Kings and Queens, and he puts down his cutlery and remains quiet as Peter finishes speaking. There's a flurry of activity as the girls fiercely argue why they should go with them, and then Edmund squeezes Henry's shoulder and departs the dining hall with one last, reassuring look. Henry watches him leave before turning back to the conversation. 

"It's nothing to do with the danger," Peter protests. "I know that you're both perfectly capable of handling yourself, but there needs to be at least one of you remaining behind at the Cair. Edmund has the most experience with Giants, which leaves Lucy to follow us with her Cure. Ride out an hour after us, and hopefully the battle will be over by then." 

It's the usual procedure, Lucy tells Henry as they gather in the courtyard. One Pevensie stays behind as ruler, two go out to battle, and one focuses mainly on healing, which is something Lucy is particularly good at. Sometimes, if there are big battles, then Susan goes with them, and Lucy grudgingly remains behind. She's not old enough, in her siblings' opinion, to fight any more wars than she has to. 

"Sometimes it's just Susan and Edmund," Lucy says, hugging herself tightly as she watches her brothers clap each other in the shoulders. "They make a really good team, but we have to remind Peter that we need him here too, rather than always running off to fight battles, no matter how important they are. He's the High King, after all." 

"But Edmund always goes?" Henry says. 

"Usually." Lucy purses her lips. 

“I want to help,” Henry says. He clenches his fist as he watches Edmund adjust his chainmail. He’s never liked staying behind, never appreciated being pushed behind his parents when things got a little risky.

“I know,” Lucy says softly. “I do too.”

“It’s harsh,” Susan says, as she approaches them. “But if you tried to help, you may only make things worse. You don’t know the land well, or how to fight Giants, and Peter and Edmund need to be one hundred percent focused on their fight.” Susan places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, a kind, understanding smile on her face. “If I had my way I’d be halfway across Narnia by now.”

“You can ride with me if they need us afterwards,” Lucy offers, although Henry can tell that it rankles, for her to have to wait until after the fight to be of any use.

“I’d appreciate that,” Henry says, smiling down at her. “Hopefully they won’t need us, though.”

“They’ll be fine,” Susan says.

They stand on the steps, in the dim sunlight, and wave as the Kings ride out of the gate, a horde of Talking Animals and Centaurs and Fauns on their heels, all armed and serious. Lucy stamps her foot as soon as they leave, and stalks off to the gardens. A swarm of purple petals envelopes her as she reaches the little white gate, and Henry thinks he hears a soothing, tinkling laugh.

“What do you do now?” Henry asks, turning to look at Susan, whose eyes are still fixed on the cavalry in the distance.

“We wait,” Susan says. She offers him her arm, and Henry takes it, allows himself to be led to the Ballroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Thank you so much! Feel free to leave a comment/kudos, I really appreciate it, and come find me on tumblr @thealmostrhetoricalquestion if you like! :) Thanks again!


	5. Battles and Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund gets hurt, and Henry tries very hard not to be awkward about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm still writing this, I guess I really just like this pairing. And this is my favourite chapter so far, lots of fluff and hurt/comfort. Mentions of blood, but only a tiny bit, and not in detail. There is an injury, too, also not described in detail. Thank you so much for all the previous response, I hope you like this chapter just as much! Thank you!

Makeshift tents have been hastily constructed further in past the treeline, red canvas propped up with silver poles, the doors billowing wildly in the wind. Henry’s horse skids to a stop near the trees, and Henry dismounts, his boots sinking through layers of thick, wet mud. The battlefield is just behind them, the bodies of three giants lying on the churned ground. Henry looks away.

Narnians’ are milling in the trees, tending to their wounds and whispering among each other. Susan and Lucy march through them, the crowds parting like water, and Henry watches them duck into the largest tent, the one with a flag impaled in the ground outside of it. He aches to follow them inside, but he can't. He's never liked sitting on the sidelines, but this is something he knows he has to wait for.

His heart is racing. They had been called out early, eagles diving into the courtyard of Cair Paravel to tell them that the battle was over, won. For a brief moment, they had all breathed a sigh of relief, and then one of the Eagles had murmured that one of the Kings was injured in the skirmish. Henry wants nothing more to charge into that tent and make sure that Edmund is unharmed, that Peter is okay. He knows better than that, though. He might be a friend, but this is a private affair, a moment for all of the Pevensies the catch their breath, to reassure each other that they’re all fine. He can picture them huddled together easily, each resting on the other, drawing strength from their siblings.

“Lucy has the Cordial,” Henry murmurs to himself.

He drops down near the tent, tucking his feet under him and pulling his cloak tightly around him as the wind whips his hair into a frenzy. It’s cold, but a dryad bustles over and pushes a warm drink into his hands. Henry tries to protest, to hand it back, but she rushes off again before he can tell her that he wasn’t in the battle, that he doesn't need the beverage.

“Henry, ain’t it?”

Henry jerks around, almost spilling his drink all over his lap. The dwarf is standing there, the dwarf from the Fell village, who gave him the dagger.

Henry clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s – that’s me. Henry Mills. I didn’t get your name, last time.”

The dwarf’s bushy eyebrows climb up his forehead. “That'd be because I didn't tell it to 'ya. You remembered me at all, lad, so that’ll do. Strugger’s the name.”

“Strugger,” Henry repeats. “Good to meet you. Are you hurt?”

“Aye, well met, lad,” Strugger says, sitting on the ground beside Henry. He takes out a dagger of his own and cleans it on the wet grass. “Got a couple of scrapes, but Dwarves are hard nuts to crack. Takes more than a couple of Giants to hurt me.”

Henry hands Strugger his drink anyway, and Strugger eventually takes it, after a few moments of grumbling. They sit and watch the rest of the Narnians' until Henry gathers the courage to ask the question burning on the end of his tongue.

“Do you know which of the Kings was hurt?”

Strugger eyes him. “The younger, I believe. Took a club to the head, and then when he was down, got stepped on. Nasty things, head injuries, but he’ll be fixed up, right as rain. Never you fear, ain’t none of the King’s or Queen’s gonna let their siblings stay hurt for long. The High King damn near took all them Giants down himself, when he saw his brother was hurt. Like a storm in motion.”

Henry swallows thickly. The younger. _Stepped on._ He feels light-headed, all of a sudden, as though all the air in the world has been sucked away. He turns his head away from Strugger to hide the fear in his eyes, and Lucy chooses that moment to fly out of the tent, her Cordial clutched in her tiny hands. She spots Henry immediately and smiles tremulously, and Henry stands up hurriedly.

“He’s healing now,” Lucy says, her voice remarkably steady considering her how pale she looks, how fragile. “He broke his leg and took a hit to the head, too, but the Cordial is doing its’ work. He just needs to rest, now.”

Henry’s sigh could knock down a forest. He moves to sit back down, beside Strugger, who pats his knee in reassurance, but Lucy catches him by the elbow. Her smile is soft and fond, and she says, “He wants to see you.”

Henry blinks at her. Strugger shoves him none-too gently when he fails to move, and Henry staggers into the side of the tent just as Peter and Susan exit it. Peter catches him and sets him upright, a tired smile on his face. There's blood smeared on his uniform, and his sword, and a graze along the bottom of his chin that looks painful and dirty.

"You should clean that," Henry says, pointing. "It might get infected."

Peter arches an eyebrow in bemusement, whatever he was about to say lost to his own surprise. Lucy giggles quietly, and Henry blushes, belatedly realising that he just ordered the _High King_ to do something.

“I'll see to that. One of the Dryads has a salve, I'm sure," Susan says, smiling. Then she turns to Henry and says, “Don't be too long in there. He needs as much sleep as he can get before we try and move him.”

“We’ll ask an Eagle for help,” Peter say, running a hand over his face. “I won't have him riding home, although he'll probably insist on it. For now, we need to tend to the injured, and see about getting rid of the Giants’ bodies. And we need to do something to raise moral. I'll walk through the troops, I think."

“Right behind you, Peter,” Lucy says eagerly, busily putting her hair up, sleeves already rolled up. Susan puts a hand on Peter’s arm gently. Peter smiles fondly at them both before turning to Henry, his expression unreadable.

"Go on then," Peter says. Something about his face is bemused, perhaps a little shocked, still, but Henry doesn't know why. "He really is asking for you."

Lucy pushes him inside, and Henry goes, almost tripping over his own two feet. It’s dark and cool in the tent, and Henry swallows down his nervousness. Grass crunches beneath his feet as he makes his way to the hammock that’s been constructed hastily, where Edmund lies with his eyes closed. Henry comes to a stop, and he doesn't know why his heart won't stop hurting, as though there's an iron fist around it, squeezing. He wants to reach out, but his hands remain by his sides, clenched uselessly.

“I can’t wait to get home and use actual pillows,” Edmund says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. Henry jumps. It's not a deep voice, nor is it a nasally one. At present, it just sounds a bit weary, and Henry is struck by the absence of mischief, the lack of sarcasm in his tone. Edmund smiles tiredly, eyes still closed, dark lashes sweeping his grimy cheeks. He’s pale and sweaty and there’s dried blood beginning to flake off near his temple, where he assumes there was a gash, from the club. Henry swallows, scanning him up and down as though he can see all the broken places, the places that are slowly knitting back together.

“You look awful,” Henry jokes weakly.

“I look as handsome as ever, thank you very much,” Edmund says, just as weakly. He prises one eye open and mock-glares at Henry. “I could have you hanged for treason, you know. And I’m not contagious, you can come over here.”

“I’m supposed to let you rest,” Henry says, sitting on the stool beside the hammock, near Edmund’s head. The stool is quite small, but it brings him to eye-level. Edmund props himself up on his elbows, opening his mouth to argue, but he doesn’t get a chance to do more than breathe, because Henry is already there, vaulting off the stool and surging up in a panic, pushing Edmund back against the cloaks. He keeps his hand firmly on Edmund’s shoulder and gives him his best stern look, copied straight from his mom’s _don’t test me I used to be an evil queen and I am not above proving it_ face.

“You got _stepped_ on. By a _Giant_ ,” Henry says, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. “You’re mad if you think I’m going to let you just get up and start wandering around.”

“It only stood on my leg,” Edmund protests, eyes soft with amusement, or something else. “And I was just sitting up.”  

“Well you can _just_ lie down and stop moving,” Henry says firmly, unmoved. “Or does your mouth stop moving when you’re lying down?”

“It does, in fact,” Edmund says lightly, mouth twitching.

“Good,” Henry says drily. “Might get some peace and quiet for once.”

Edmund laughs, which turns into a cough, which turns into him rolling onto his side and groaning, holding his chest. Henry’s hands flutter uselessly above him before one settles on the back of Edmund’s neck, light as a feather at first. Edmund's skin is hot and sticky with sweat, and possibly blood, but Henry doesn’t care. He drops back onto the stool, but keeps his hand where it is.

“You’re worse than Peter,” Edmund grounds out, in between coughs, sounding inexplicably pleased about this fact. “He tried to make me lie upside down in the hammock, for shock. Bloody idiot.”

“I fail to see how I’m worse than that,” Henry says, laughing, one hand still pressed firmly to Edmund’s neck. He makes soothing circles with his fingertips, digging into the muscle lightly until Edmund stops coughing and grows quiet. Dark eyes find his, and Henry’s hand stills.

“No,” Edmund croaks abruptly, cheeks flushed. “Keep doing that.”

Henry finds himself flushing too, and after a moments’ hesitation, he continues. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the groan of the troops out the front.

“They said I shouldn’t stay too long,” Henry says eventually, although he doesn't want to leave. “You need to sleep.”

“I can sleep with you here,” Edmund mumbles. Henry’s heart skips, and he has a feeling that Edmund wouldn’t be saying these things if he hadn’t been hurt, if he wasn’t so worn out. Edmund’s eyes flutter closed, and he yawns widely, catching Henry’s hand when he moves it away from his neck. Their fingers wind together loosely, and Henry stares at them in a slight daze. He blushes even though there’s nobody there to see it.

Edmund makes weird sounds when he sleeps, Henry discovers, over the course of the next ten minutes. He makes little noises and mumbles things that Henry can’t decipher. It’s almost sweet. It _is_ sweet. Henry wishes he has his phone, so that he could film it for proof and play it back when Edmund least expects it.

A nymph floats in and takes Edmund’s temperature, adjusting his blankets and carefully checking the wounds, which are all closed up and healed. Edmund doesn’t stir, nor does he let go of Henry’s hands. The nymph spots their joined hands, which are lying in Henry’s lap, and she smiles softly at him before retreating. Henry doesn’t want to, but he untangles their hands mere moments before Peter strides into the tent, only to stop dead at the sight of his sleeping brother.

“He asked me to stay,” Henry whispers, moving to stand up. Peter waves him back down with an imperious flick of his wrist.

“It’s fine,” Peter says. “I was surprised when he asked for you. He’s usually stubborn about having visitors when he’s ill. Not that he ever gets ill, according to him. He doesn’t like people making a fuss if it’s not strictly necessary, and that includes all the times when he’s almost _died_.”

“He seems to have different ideas about what constitutes an injury,” Henry whispers, grinning. Edmund frowns in his sleep, mumbling grumpily as though he can tell that they’re making fun of him, and both Peter and Henry share a small grin.

*

It takes another hour before they can get Edmund onto an eagle and flying back to Cair Paravel. Henry doesn’t ask what happened to the Giants bodies, nor to the village that was under attack, but he happens upon Strugger before he leaves, who reassures him that nobody was gravely injured. The Kings got there in time.

He doesn’t see Edmund for the rest of the day. Lucy tells him he’s sleeping, and then makes him hide with her in the garden from Susan, who’s determined for everything to go ahead as planned for the Winter Ball.

“She’s my best friend, besides Mr Tumnus, of course,” Lucy says, “But she gets a little crazy when it comes to big events and parties. She made us all learn to dance within a week of the first ever Ball.”

“I can’t dance very well,” Henry admits. “My grandpa tried to teach me but I accidentally elbowed him in the throat and he called off the lessons for a while.”

David had never gotten the chance to teach Emma how to dance when she was younger, and he had been pretty excited to teach Henry. The task had been passed onto his mom’s when David’s throat turned blue, and even when David insisted he could continue, Henry had sworn off dancing entirely.

Lucy laughs brightly. “I couldn’t dance either, and Peter was awful at first. Susan picked it up really quickly, but Ed’s the best dancer out of us all. You can’t tell him I told you, though. He doesn’t like to admit it. He’d much rather talk about how good of a swordsman he is.”

“I haven’t seen him fight,” Henry says, suddenly curious.

“We’ve all gotten quite good at it by now,” Lucy says. “Perhaps we can teach you one day.”

One day. The way they make it sound like he’s going to be around for the foreseeable future isn’t lost on Henry, but he decides not to broach the subject. He misses his family, and moments like these tend to bring it all hurtling back. On top of everything that's happened today, it feels like a heavy weight on his shoulders, and suddenly all Henry wants to do is sleep.

“Do you reckon Susan’s finished looking for us yet?” Henry asks, suddenly desperate to be away from here.

Perhaps Lucy sees something in his eyes, because she doesn’t comment. She simply smiles and tugs on his hand, walking him back through the garden and loudly naming all of the flora and fauna that they see on the way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! Please leave a comment/kudos on your way out, I'd really appreciate it, as well as anything you'd like to see in future chapters :) @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr. Thank you!


	6. Sparring and Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's lots of smirking and awkwardness, as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response! This is the next chapter, and I've worked out how I'm going to do the rest of this story, so there should be four chapters left after this one, for those of you that are sticking with this! Thank you so much, I really hope you enjoy this :)

Henry can't quite focus. He's standing in the centre of a large warm room, on top of a small raised platform. His arms are beginning to ache from where they're stretched out to his sides and the faun in charge of pinning his trousers has already stabbed him in the leg three times, with increasing vigour and yet more apologies. Susan keeps circling him, swathes of different fabric delicately displayed by a flurry of eager hedgehogs and rabbits. 

None of these reasons explain his lack of focus, however. Edmund is smirking at him. He's leaning against the doorframe in the doorway opposite Henry, just a few feet away, dressed for a sparring session in rich blue and gold, and he won't stop smirking, one eyebrow arched. 

"Shouldn't you be sitting down?" Henry grits out pointedly. Edmund just raises the eyebrow further and bites down on an apple. “Somewhere else?”

"Indeed he should be," Susan says, shooting a disapproving look over her shoulder at her brother. "Unfortunately, he's never been that skilled at following orders. And I know you think you'll be sparring this morning, but if Peter catches you..." 

"Peter won't catch me," Edmund says. "He might ever so slightly taller than me, but he's not as fast. And I'm completely healed, the doctor said so." 

“Well could you be completely healed somewhere else?” Henry says a little desperately. He gets stabbed in the knee for his trouble, and the faun winces up at him. Edmund just continues to smirk, and it’s too _distracting_.

“What about this one?” Susan holds up a bright square of silk in an offensively bright shade of violet, decorated with white blossoms. Henry stares at it, a little wide-eyed, whilst Edmund succumbs to a fit of silent laughter.

“I don’t think that’s really my colour,” Henry says politely, trying not to yell. Or cry. Or sprint from the room, possibly jabbing Edmund in the ribs on his way out of the door.

“I think it brings out your eyes,” Edmund says, still doubled over and cackling. Susan glares at him briefly before placing the silk square back down in favour of something a little calmer, and a little less colourful.

“This is it,” Susan says decisively. She nods at a rabbit, who fluffs his tale importantly before spiriting away the other options. Susan clicks her fingers with a warm smile and the other Narnians begin the process of cutting and measuring the available cloth, chattering among themselves. The place has become a hive of activity in only a few seconds, and Henry drops his arms, glancing around in surprise.

“You can both go and flirt with each other elsewhere,” Susan says, with a small smirk. Edmund chokes on a bite of apple and Henry almost crushes the faun as he topples off of the platform. He manages to catch himself before he falls on the floor, straightening up and dusting himself off with as much dignity as he can muster, whilst Edmund makes hacking sounds in the background.

“Off you go,” Susan says, shooing them out of them room. “I’ll call you when it’s done, which shouldn’t be too long, not with all of my helpers.”

The door shuts, leaving them both standing in silence. Henry bites his lip and glances around the empty corridor, and when he looks back, Edmund is turning away hastily.

“You can come and spar with me, if you like,” Edmund offers. “Just until the suit is ready, obviously. Susan’s a miracle worker when it comes to clothes, so you should be fine.”

“As long as it’s not bright purple,” Henry mutters, and Edmund snickers.

They make their way out into the courtyard, shivering in the cold. Edmund ducks into the stables, beckoning Henry to follow him, and the scent of horses and hay stirs up a myriad of memories. Henry thinks of home, of his mother and of Violet, the pretty girl he had danced with in Camelot. They had become friends until she had returned home with the rest of Camelot, and Henry still misses her. He has Grace, and his other friends from school, and he knows he’s going to make new friends when he goes to college, but Violet was his first friend from the Enchanted Forest, and his first kiss. It makes her a little more magical in his mind.

“That’s a curious face,” Edmund says. He hands Henry one of the wooden practice swords from a rack on the back of the wall, and Henry takes it easily, testing the weight in his hands. It’s a little unbalanced, but it’s not as if he’s going into battle.

“I was thinking of home,” Henry admits quietly. “A friend of mine would have liked this place. She loved horses. I rescued her horse for her, once, when it escaped.”

The situation hadn’t been quite as clear cut as he thought it was at the time, but Henry had long since forgiven Emma for everything that had happened when she was the Dark One. It hadn’t been her fault, after all, and he knew that she had only been trying to help, in her own way.

 “You speak as though you haven’t seen her in a long time,” Edmund says quietly. “Or as though you won’t see her again.”

Truthfully, Henry isn’t sure if he will see her again. His stay in Narnia is already a lot longer than he thought it would be, considering at the beginning he hoped to be here for a few days, at the most. Instead he’s spent a good few weeks getting used to the beautiful castle and the gardens, spending his time in the snow and in the surrounding villages, and getting to know the Kings and Queens. It’s been a while since they spoke with the Hag, and yet they’ve found very little to suggest that it’s even _possible_ for him to leave without some great power interfering.

“Even if I get home, it’s complicated,” Henry says, shrugging.

“Not _even_ _if_ ,” Edmund interrupts fiercely. He takes a step forward, and then stops, although one of his hands comes up as though he wants to reach out to him. “I told you, Henry. If you want to go home, then I’ll find a way. I won’t stop until I find one. I promise.”

_If you want to go home._

Of course Henry wants to go home. He misses his parents, and his grandparents (both sets) and his friends, and baby Neil. He misses his school, and his house, and the park that he and Grace often sit in when they’re avoiding their homework, or their parents. He misses Storybrooke, and the crazy things that happen there, and cinnamon on his hot chocolate, and Ruby’s smile and hanging around in the Sheriff’s station while Emma makes faces at the paperwork. He misses it all desperately.

He can’t help thinking, though, that when he leaves this place, he’s going to miss Narnia just as desperately as he misses his home.

“I know,” Henry says softly. “I know you’re trying, and I’m grateful.”

Edmund gives him a smile that’s more of a grimace, and then moves to pick out his own sword. “Tell me about your friend,” he offers, voice slightly muffled as he rummages through the stock.

“We aren’t really friends anymore,” Henry says, shrugging. He hesitates, and then decides that Edmund deserves to know the truth. He’s more than trustworthy, and Henry can call him a friend, now. “She lives in… another world, I suppose you would say. One that’s different to this one, and mine. So even if I do get home, it won’t be easy to see her.”

He bites his lip, but Edmund doesn’t look surprised.

“I figured as much,” he admits, when Henry questions him. “If Narnia exists, then other worlds must exist too. Other worlds that aren’t England, or your Enchanted Forest. You don’t speak much of your home, but when you do, you say things that I don’t understand. Video games, and such. I thought it had to be a more complicated situation than the one you shared with us.”

Henry takes a step forward, the sword falling to rest against his thigh. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. It’s just that I’m not sure that you’re supposed to know. And even if you were, I don’t exactly know how to explain it. There’s so much to talk about, I’d need years.”

“You could have years,” Edmund murmurs. Henry pretends not to hear him. Instead, he looks down at the practice sword and swings it experimentally, twirling it through his fingers the way he’s seen David do, when he’s attempting to show off. It’s usually met with rolled eyes and an exasperated, fond sigh, but in Henry’s case, it’s met with excitement and a wide grin.

“You know what you’re doing,” Edmund says, leaning over to tap the sword with his own. “You’ve fought before?”

Henry shrugs modestly. “Ogres. And trolls. And a witch, once. My Granddad thought it best to teach me everything he could. I’m not that good, though.”

Edmund laughs, and his eyes are so bright, fixed on Henry intently, as though he is something brilliant, when in fact all he is, is a boy in a stable, with a wooden sword and a convoluted past.

“Show me what you’ve got, then, and I’ll be the judge of that,” Edmund says, and he leads Henry out into the courtyard, a bright glint in his eye.

*

The library is a welcome relief after the freezing hour spent in the cold. Snow had started to come down heavily after thirty minutes of sparring, of swords hitting swords and Edmund laughing as he corrected Henry’s stance, kicking his feet apart with his own. Henry’s heart is still thumping wildly in his chest from the exhilaration of watching Edmund come alive. There had been something fiercely intense in his gaze as they fought. Even after the snow had started to fall and the sparring had devolved into a snowball war, the intensity had stayed.

“I still have ice down the back of my shirt,” Henry says accusingly, shivering and rubbing his hair, which is full of flecks of snow.

“That’s what you get for letting your guard down,” Edmund says, shooting a cheeky grin over his shoulder. He tends to the fire, coaxing it into a roar, and then crouches beside it for a moment, warming his hands. Henry unwinds his scarf and drapes it over the back of a chair, moving to stare curiously at the map pinned to the wall. There are dots all over it, and the bottom corner hasn’t been inked in yet, but it’s a beautiful map. A work of art.

“I’m working on treaties for some of the more stubborn residents of Narnia,” Edmund explains, coming closer. He slips off his shoes and kicks them gently under his desk, and Henry copies him. He feels much more comfortable, the tension from the past few hours seeping out of his shoulders. “Not big peace treaties, like the one planned for the winter ball, but we need to establish links with the dwarves in these mountains, and this part of the western wood is still slightly ruined from the white witches’ work. It took a long time for some of the trees to thaw, and they’re still bitter about it, which I can’t blame them for.”

“Hasn’t it been years since you ended her reign?” Henry asks, his voice inexplicably low. Edmund angles his head away from him carefully, apparently engrossed in an open book left on the desk beneath the map, although Henry spots the act for what it is; avoidance.

“A few years, yes,” Edmund says softly. “I was eleven, when we came here and defeated her. It’s been almost seven years, and yet some still don’t think I…”

Henry waits, but Edmund just shakes his head, trailing off. The door slides open, and a hedgehog slips in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Henry takes it off her with a grateful smile and watches her go – it still surprises him, seeing little animals walking around in cardigans, going about their business and gossiping with each other.

He puts the tea tray on a table beside the fire and then retreats to the desk, where he starts to fiddle with the papers. Edmund has a pile of books in his arms and is making his way around the room, putting them back on shelves and muttering quietly to himself, brows furrowed. It should probably be a little awkward, the silence, or tense, after their conversation, but instead it’s just warm and comfortable. Henry looks out of the window and watches the snow pile up along the windowsill, the evening sky a grey mass of falling flakes.

"I was thinking," Henry says quietly. "About the Winter Ball. Susan told me that I had to dance with someone, since it’s partly for me.”

Edmund stills. His back is to Henry as he slides a book back onto a shelf, and then he turns slowly, gaze steady. 

"Yes?" 

"I was thinking," Henry says slowly, distracted by the way Edmunds mouth moves into a smirk. "That maybe... if you didn't... if it were possible..." 

"Yes?" 

Henry huffs. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" 

Edmund laughs. He looks far too fond, and there's a spark in his eyes that Henry can't cope with, so Henry rolls his eyes and turns away, picking up a book to hide his growing blush. A hand rests lightly on Henry's hip. He lets himself be turned around, book still held up in front of his face. He can feel Edmund smiling down at him. 

"Henry," Edmund says quietly, leaning in. 

"Hmm?" 

A finger curls over the top of his book, lowering it so that Henry has no choice but to look at Edmund.

"Would you like to survive the Winter Ball with me?" Edmund teases. 

Henry would laugh, if he weren't too busy remembering how to breathe. 

"Not anymore," Henry grins. "You've lost your chance, making fun of me." 

"Is that so? I guess I'll just have to dance alone, then." 

Henry grins cheekily. "Shouldn't be too much of a hardship. Lucy said you're quite the dancer." 

Edmund goes bright red, right up to his ears. "That's - she's - _Lucy_.” He groans. “I didn't want that to be common knowledge." 

"I think it's cute," Henry says, laughing, patting him on the shoulder. "Very masculine. You'll have all the girls swooning." 

"What about the boys?" Edmund asks, arching an eyebrow and stepping impossibly closer. He eases the book out of Henry's hands and leans around him to put it on the desk, behind Henry. His mouth just barely brushes Henry's ear as he draws back, and a shiver runs up Henry's spine. "Will any of the boys be swooning?" 

"I know one that might," Henry says hoarsely. His eyes drift down. 

"Good." 

The door crashes open as Lucy flings herself into the library, and Edmund jerks back so violently that his arms pinwheel wildly and he trips back over the tea table with a yell. Sugar flies through the air and a teaspoon clatters to the floor along with Edmund, and Henry finds himself standing stock-still, shocked, mouth open. 

There's a stunned silence, and then Edmund groans from his prone position on the floor, legs still tangled haphazardly on top of the tea table. 

"I think I just broke my spine," Edmund groans, and Henry doubles over with laughter, his shoulders shaking. 

Lucy's hands fly to her mouth to stifle her giggles. "Oh Ed," she says, as her brother pops into view, scowling profusely, his curls ruffled. "I didn't mean to startle you. What were you doing?" 

"Henry and I were talking about the Ball," Edmund says, standing up and dusting himself off. His ears are still red, despite his impassive expression, and he can't quite look at Henry. That’s fine, because Henry can’t quite look at Edmund either.

"That's what I came to talk to you about," Lucy says. "Susan wants Henry to come back – _just_ Henry, this time – and try on the finished suit.”

“She’s finished it already? Alright then.”

Lucy smiles brightly and walks out of the library, beckoning for Henry to follow. He catches Edmund’s eye at the door and pauses.

“That was a yes, wasn’t it?” Henry blurts out. “To dancing? At the Ball?”

Edmund grins. “It was a yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! I hope you liked it :) Please leave a comment/kudos and feel free to come and yell at me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion :)

**Author's Note:**

> Any thoughts? They'd be very much appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> 'Coconutcranberries' on tumblr, by the way.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Locked in Chains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502208) by [LYRILY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LYRILY/pseuds/LYRILY)




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